


To Sleep, Perchance

by Leela



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not-Quite-Claiming, Sensory Deprivation, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:24:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leela/pseuds/Leela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has been going non-stop for weeks, ever since he got back from college, barely even pausing to breathe. Derek has had enough and decides to take matters, and Stiles, into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Sleep, Perchance

**Author's Note:**

> I'm blaming all the Teen Wolf talk on my Twitter feed for this one. Many thanks to aislinntlc and minxie for the preread, and to kittys_devil for the icon (on DW, LJ and IJ).

Derek could watch Stiles all day long. In fact, there have been days — possibly even weeks — when he's done exactly that. But he's never felt as bothered by what he's seen as he does right now. 

While Stiles is always moving, talking, thinking, doing and fucking being, he always has moments of calm in between. Spaces and times when he's as close to peaceful as Stiles ever gets. 

Now, though, in the days and weeks since Stiles came back from college, he's been almost frantic. Never stopping, never pausing, barely even seeming to breathe. If this is what an undergraduate degree has done to him, Derek is glad that Stiles is planning to take a break before going back. Because Derek is tired of watching him and of the way his scent is being overwhelmed by the smells of caffeine and exhaustion. 

"Just hold on," Stiles says to his phone before turning to Erica, "I've got what you need. Here." He digs into his bag and pulls out a sheaf of closely written pages, handing it to her with a lot of instructions and then going back to his phone conversation. "Yeah, yeah, I found something about that on this website last night." He jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder and starts typing on his laptop.

This cannot continue, Derek thinks, and a low growl forms in his chest. Erica and Isaac pause in what they're doing. Jackson arches an eyebrow and shakes his head. Derek flares his nostrils at him, and Jackson shrugs. 

"Whatever," Jackson says. "I need a cup of decent coffee anyway. And that's not possible in this hellhole." He stalks to the doorway and then pauses. "Anyone else?"

Erica and Isaac scramble to follow him. They're gone, not even a tail hair in sight by the time Stiles yells, "Wait! I need a triple... well, fuck you very much too." Then he says, "Not you," into the phone and Derek has finally had more than enough.

He gets up slowly, moving as quietly as he can across the room. He steps over the two floorboards that still creak, despite the fact that he's completely rebuilt the house and replaced those boards more than once, and he kneels beside Stiles.

"Say goodbye," Derek says. 

Stiles looks up at him, eyes wide and his lips rounding into an O of surprise. When he doesn't move, Derek takes the phone from Stiles. 

"Stiles will call you back. Much later." He presses the button to lock the phone. Another press of his thumb mutes it. 

"You can't do that," Stiles says. "You really can't do that kind of thing. Just walk up and take someone's phone away. Hang up on my friend without even checking to see who it is."

"I just did." 

"What if it had been important? Some of my calls are a matter of life and death, you know. What if someone's entire life was hanging in the balance, depending on that call? What if it had been my dad?"

"It wasn't."

"Give me that back."

Stiles flails a hand in the general direction of the phone, which Derek easily avoids. Then, before Stiles can make another attempt, Derek snatches his laptop away. 

"That's my laptop." Stiles stares at Derek in complete shock. "You can't do this, just come over and take away my phone and laptop. I need them. I have things to do with them. Things that can't wait just because you've decided to be a complete ass."

When the phone and laptop are locked away in the safe, Derek walks back over to Stiles. "You need to stop," he says, trying to be as gentle as he can even if it does still sound like an order.

"Stop?" Stiles looks baffled. "What are you talking about? I can't just stop."

"You can, and you will."

"Fuck you."

The image that conjures up in Derek's mind isn't one he's ready to share with Stiles yet. Glowering at Stiles, he reminds himself why he's doing this, why it's worth putting up with all this shit. He reaches out and puts a finger beneath Stiles's chin, tilting it up and making Stiles look at him.

"Do you trust me?"

"You stole my laptop," is Stiles's answer, "and my phone. You just came over here and took them from me without asking, and now you want to know if I trust you? What kind of person does that?"

"A werewolf," Derek says, and then has to work on not smiling as Stiles all but whacks himself in the head. He's pretty sure he gets close to expressionless. 

"Gah!" Stiles throws up his hands.

After a few seconds, Derek asks again, "Do you trust me?"

"It's a stupid question," Stiles says sullenly. "After everything we've done, how can I not trust you?"

"Then answer the question." 

"Yes, okay. Yes, I trust you. Satisfied?" Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. "Can I have my phone and laptop back now?"

"When was the last time you slept?"

"I sleep."

"When?" Derek's patience is eroding at the edges, as usual with Stiles, but he holds on to it as best he can. "Tell me, Stiles. When did you last stop thinking long enough to sleep through the night?"

"I," Stiles begins and then subsides. After a moment, he gets a strange expression on his face, the one that means he's going to try to get away with telling only part of the truth, and he says, "I don't know. A week? Maybe three?"

It's far worse than Derek imagined. If Stiles is admitting to three weeks— he rubs a hand over his jaw, unable to comprehend how Stiles can still be functioning. "Upstairs," he says and gets to his feet. 

"Upstairs," Stiles grumbles. "Ordering me around like a dog. Or a wolf. A lowly omega with shit for brains who needs someone to tell him what to do." 

The muttering and mumbling continues up the stairs, down the hallway, and into Derek's bedroom. Until Stiles crosses the threshold.

"Derek?" 

It's a single word, his name, and the not-quite-fear behind it stabs through Derek like a silver knife. He shivers and turns around. "I can help you stop and get you to sleep. If you trust me."

Stiles's quick inhalation is as quiet in the room as it's loud in Derek's ears. "I trust you," Stiles breathes, quiet and intense as a prayer. 

"Get undressed and lay on the bed," Derek says, then he heads into the bathroom without waiting to see if Stiles obeyed him.

The real problem doesn't lie in what Derek is about to do, but in controlling his wolf while he does it. He takes a few seconds in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror, hands flat on the counter, listening to the rustling in the other room and not looking at himself. The bed creaks when Stiles gets onto it in the way it does when one of the pack lies down on the side that isn't where Derek sleeps.

At that, Derek can't help but smile. It matters, this choice Stiles has made, and Derek needs another few seconds to get his wolf back into its cage before he can return to the bedroom. 

On seeing him, Stiles flops his arms out to either side, wincing when he catches the edge of the bedside table with one of them. Clumsier than normal, even for Stiles. "Do your worst," Stiles says.

"Or my best," Derek corrects him. He sheds his tank-top and jeans without a thought, aware of Stiles's indrawn breath and the increased heat and intensity of his gaze. 

Stiles is laying there, on Derek's bed, adding his scent to the pillows and sheets. Closing his eyes, Derek fights the urge to strip the bed, to roll Stiles around and capture that scent in the mattress itself, where it won't be washed away. 

When Derek opens his eyes again, he takes careful note of what he's seeing. Stiles's clothes are folded neatly on the dresser, his shoes on the floor below with the socks stuffed inside them. No underwear, though, so Stiles isn't completely naked under the covers. His chest, though, is bare and above the covers that are down around Stiles's waist. He's long and lean and more muscular than he looks with clothes on. 

And Stiles is everything but still. Faint tremors run beneath his skin. His fingers tap on the bed. His legs flex. A lot of little but constant movements. 

It's time to make that stop.

Reaching under the bed for the wooden box that he stashed there almost ten days ago, Derek picks out two things and gets onto his side of the bed. "Are you ready?"

"Yes. No. Maybe?"

Honesty is good, Derek thinks, then he says, "Roll onto your side, facing away from me." 

When Stiles has done what he asks, Derek slides under the covers and in behind him. He wraps an arm around Stiles's middle, trapping Stiles's arms, and curls a leg over the top of Stiles's legs. He breathes in, almost shuddering as he's surrounded by Stiles's scent. 

"What I'm going to do," Derek keeps his voice low, "is called sensory deprivation."

"Oh, I've heard of—"

"Hush," Derek says, and to his surprise, Stiles does what he's told. "Listen to what I tell you. Then, when I'm done, I want you to tell me if you agree or not. I won't do this if you don't."

It's a lot of explaining, more words than Derek's really comfortable saying. When he's done, he says, "Tell me. Yes or no?"

"Yes, _please_." The last word is so out of character for Stiles, it's almost a plea. 

"You'll need to squeeze my hand to get my attention," Derek says. "Gently if you're comfortable, and as hard as you can, if you want me to stop. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Stiles nods. "Now will you just get on with it and stop talking, because you, saying all these words, is freaking me the fuck out."

"Close your eyes," Derek says. He releases Stiles's arms and reaches for the blindfold. It settles over Stiles's face easily, and Derek ties it off behind Stiles's head. The gag is next, soft as the blindfold, because Derek doesn't trust Stiles not to try to talk.

"Now just feel."

The sound out of Stiles's mouth isn't quite a protest, but it is an attempt to talk. It's also enough for Derek to settle back into position again, holding Stiles down.

He pushes an arm beneath Stiles's pillow and grasps Stiles's hands with his, curling them together so Stiles can squeeze if he needs to. Then he runs his free hand over Stiles's skin, anywhere and everywhere he can reach. He purposefully doesn't follow a set pattern. He strokes up Stiles's arm, down his chest. He caresses circles over Stiles's stomach and rubs his thumb over the sharp edge of Stiles's hip. Stiles's skin is soft, the hair on it sometimes rough against Derek's palm. He runs his fingers up Stiles's throat, traces the outline of his Adam's apple, his jaw, his nose and forehead. 

At first, Stiles doesn't stop moving. His muscles twitch under Derek's touch. He changes position as best he can with the way Derek is pinning him in place. Sometimes he arches back, makes little thrusts forward, as if he's trying to get Derek to touch his cock, the one place Derek is avoiding. Each tiny roll of Stiles's hips rubs his ass, the roughness of his new underwear against Derek's cock. 

Derek holds himself still though and ignores the ache that's settling into his balls and the base of his cock. This isn't about him. This is about Stiles and what Stiles needs. 

Eventually, though, Stiles's breathing slows and becomes more even. His movements slow down, until his muscles relax with a jolt that would have brought him up off the bed without Derek's hold.

A rumbling vibration starts in Derek's chest at that. It's working and he knows it. He can feel the tension easing out of Stiles with every gliding touch of Derek's hand over Stiles's body.

With a deliberate downward stroke that takes his hand over the waistband of Stiles's underwear, Derek brings the edge of his palm against the head of Stiles's cock, his very hard cock. Stiles mumbles something around his gag — an apology perhaps — and Derek shushes him and starts again. 

It takes four tries in all before Stiles is quiet enough, relaxed enough, and Derek is satisfied enough to slide his hand down Stiles's chest and stomach and curl his fingers in a loose grip around Stiles's cock. It's hard and long and curves slightly. And it fits Derek's hand almost perfectly. He tugs once, experimentally, and gets nothing more than a brief tensing of Stiles's muscles in response. 

Derek uses lazy strokes with an occasional twist over the head. He presses a kiss to the back of Stiles's head, breathing in his arousal, his need, and feeling the rumbling vibrations in his own chest increase. Mine, they say, but Derek ignores them and focuses on Stiles.

When it finally happens, after long minutes, Stiles comes with a sigh, spilling into Derek's cupped palm, and settles down into sleep with barely a murmur. 

Moving carefully so as not to wake Stiles, Derek raises his hand and licks it clean. The taste, the scent of Stiles overwhelms him for a moment, brings his wolf roaring to the surface, but Derek curls his tongue into the web of his fingers and licks until his wolf is calm again. 

The blindfold is next, removed and tossed away, and then the gag. Stiles mumbles something when his mouth is freed, but he falls deeper into sleep.

When Derek is sure that Stiles won't wake up, he wraps himself around him, moving until his lips are against the back of Stiles's neck. He touches the tip of his tongue to Stiles's skin. 

He won't bite Stiles, won't mark him yet. Not until he's ready. But for now, Derek thinks, as he settles in to guard Stiles's sleep, this is enough.


End file.
